I remember sitting in a circle with a group of students, each from a wildly different walk of life. One had just started following Jesus a few weeks earlier. Another wasn’t sure what they believed about anything. One had been hurt deeply by the church. Another had never stepped inside one. I looked around that circle and had this moment—like a holy hush—where I realized: This is what community was meant to be.
But it’s hard to believe a place like that exists, right? A place where your race, background, or past doesn’t disqualify you from sitting at the table. A place where people see you—not a label or a story or a stereotype.
I get it. Most of us have been in rooms where we felt like we didn’t belong. Sometimes it’s subtle—a look, a shift in tone, a pause that shouldn’t be there. Sometimes it’s louder than that. And when that happens enough times, you start to wonder: Is there any place where I can just be fully known and fully welcomed?
The honest answer is yes. But it’s rare. And it’s messy. And it’s not always easy to find.
The church, at its best, is a community where belonging comes before behavior, and love precedes agreement.
But I believe it’s what the church is supposed to be. The church, at its best, is a community where belonging comes before behavior, and love precedes agreement. It’s not uniformity, but unity. It's the kind of place where the walls that divide us—walls built from fear, pain, misunderstanding, and pride—come crashing down in light of something stronger.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer once said, “The Church is the Church only when it exists for others… not dominating, but helping and serving. It must tell people of every calling what it means to live for Christ, to exist for others.”
That kind of church can only be built by people who are deeply aware of their own need for grace. When we know how much we’ve been forgiven, how deeply we’re loved—not because of who we are but in spite of who we are—it changes how we see everyone else.
Jesus was always creating space for the outsider. He didn't avoid the messy conversations. He didn’t flinch at people’s pasts. He sat at their tables, heard their stories, and loved them all the way through. That’s the Jesus I follow.
Doug Fields, a long-time youth pastor, once said something simple but sticky: “People are not projects; they are people to be loved.” That line has stuck with me for years. Because it reminds me that our job isn’t to fix people. It’s to love them. And let Jesus do the healing and the heart work.
So if you’re wondering if there’s a place where you can belong—really belong—I want to say: Yes, there is. It might not be perfect. It might still be learning. But there are communities where your story is honored, your questions are welcomed, and your presence matters.
And if you’re already part of a community like that, maybe the invitation today is to widen the circle. Pull up another chair. Listen more closely. Love more deeply. Because when we do that, we look a whole lot like Jesus.
And that's the kind of community I want to give my life to.
